In a Different Time
by Sylvie Orp
Summary: Set some time in the future when England is at war with itself. The ruling Flak are the Gestapo of its day (in two chapters)
1. Chapter 1

Doyle heard a knocking on the door. He tensed. The knocking continued. It was gentle but persistent. Doyle reached for the walking stick Bodie had given him. It wasn't much as a weapon, but it was all he had. He couldn't withstand another beating. The Flak had nearly killed him last time. It had been a warning. If they'd wanted him dead they could have done it there and then. He had waited till he'd heard the car fire up and they were gone - leaving him barely conscious and bleeding in the town square. When he'd felt it safe to move, like a wounded animal, his instinct had told him to head for home. The Flak knew where he lived, and they could still have been lying in wait for him there for a second helping, but he was past caring by then. He didn't go straight to a mate's house. He didn't want to endanger them more than necessary, so he'd lain alone in his flat for several days before he felt it safe to get help. Now here the Flak were again at his door - or were they? The Flak didn't knock; they just blew the door down like the Big Bad Wolf. So Doyle dragged himself painfully to his feet, using the stick as an aid, and as a weapon once he got to the door and raised the cane above his head. He peered through the spy hole and saw a pair of terrified eyes staring at him. He lowered his stick and let the man in. It was his friend, Olssen. He was Danish and had helped to smuggle allies across the lines to safety. The lines often shifted, as did alliances. It was a dangerous game. Doyle, Olssen and too many others had suffered by trusting the wrong people, or been betrayed. Olssen slid quickly into the apartment. He was shocked by Doyle's battered appearance. He automatically began to ask what had happened, then stopped himself. It was obvious, and questions were dangerous things. Instead he announced:

"Terry's been caught."

Terry was one of their trusted allies. Although he was as committed to the cause as any of them, it wouldn't take interrogators too long to force any information out of him. Doyle and his associates didn't blame anyone for talking under interrogation. They understood that even a hero couldn't hold out forever. Doyle and Olssen also knew that, since Terry had been captured, the Flak would be on Olssen's tail quite soon. Terry didn't know about Doyle, but if Olssen where later captured … and so the chain would begin to unravel. Bodie and Green were also in the cell, but that was as far as Doyle knew. The cell could be a lot bigger, and was almost certainly attached to other cells, but that was too dangerous an amount of information for one person to hold. Olssen needed to get out and fast before they caught up with him. It had been risky to contact a cell member, but he hadn't known that Doyle had been badly injured. It had been a mistake to come here. Clearly the Flak knew about Doyle.

"Wait a moment," he said, limping to the bedroom.

Olssen stood uncertainly in the hall as he heard a short conversation on the phone. Then he watched his friend emerge a few moments later and go into the kitchen. Olssen was surprised that Doyle came out clutching an empty milk bottle.

"Let's go," he said. His friend didn't need telling twice.

Olssen was even more surprised that Doyle put the bottle out as though he were expecting the milkman in the morning. He didn't ask about such a mundane action. Information was a dangerous medicine. Maybe Doyle just wanted to give the impression he was still around. However, the bottle was a signal to a chosen few. A bottle on the left of the doorstep told a special friend who may come looking that the agent had left of his own free will and was expecting to come back; to the right of the door, and the agent had gone into hiding and was on the run. The bottle was placed carefully to the left.

Despite Doyle's injury, they backed and doubled backed on their journey till even Olssen was getting disorientated. If the Flak were tailing them they were good, and Olssen didn't think they were _that_ good. His friend's breathing was painful to listen to, and the dragging of his left leg was becoming more marked. Out of the darkness, the river suddenly emerged. That, it seemed, was their destination.

"I thought we were going to my Embassy," the Dane said. "The Flak can't get me there."

"Dream on," Doyle whispered into the darkness. "The Flak have been tearing up the rule book for months. I haven't time to …"

But Doyle was cut off as they heard rapid footsteps approaching. They pressed themselves harder against the building and the footsteps passed by at a brisk pace. It was a man out of uniform. Could be Flak, could be an innocent resident trying to avoid the curfew. Once the footsteps had faded from their hearing, and waiting a bit more after that, they emerged and continued on their way. Doyle led Olssen to some crates waiting for storage in the morning. They could see the marina more clearly from here without being seen themselves. Olssen threw Doyle a quizzical look.

"You're going back to Denmark, Franc. Even the Flak can't get you there."

Olssen wanted to argue but knew Doyle to be right. He couldn't operate as a saboteur or help to get civilians across the line if the Flak knew him by name and by sight. He was a busted flush now and a liability.

"And you? It seems that the Flak know about you, too, Ray."

"This is my home, Franc. I've nowhere else to …"

"Come with me and wait out the war there. You've done more than …"

"No. I can still operate here. This is still my country -"

"… right or wrong?" Olssen finished for him.

Doyle smiled and turned his attention back to the marina. He would have liked nothing more than to get to a neutral country and stay with his friend's family on a Danish farm looking at nothing more harmful than a heard of Friesian cows, but his job was here; his life - and death - was here. Doyle's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of several vehicles approaching at high speed. The brakes were slammed on and the occupants got out noisily. The Flak had arrived and wanted everyone to know it. They shouted at the captain of a ship that was preparing to leave and, eventually, a gangplank was lowered and the Flak went aboard. Doyle and Olssen could see, even in the dark, that papers were being demanded and shown.

"Were you thinking of putting me on that? I could get on board after the Flak have left, eh?"

Doyle shook his head. "The Flak don't leave Franc. They stay with the ship until it reaches the open sea and then a motor launch sets off for them and then, and only then, do they disembark. They don't want the likes of you sneaking aboard as soon as their back's turned. It makes them cross!"

Olssen smiled in the darkness. Trust Doyle to try to make light of this dreadful situation. He didn't ask his pal what they were doing here then if getting aboard that Scandinavian vessel wasn't on the cards. He waited patiently alongside his friend. His trust in him was complete.

After some time the ship pushed off. Doyle was right, the Flak didn't get off. Doyle saw the sailing as a sign. He moved off, Franc automatically following in his wake. They sneaked along the quayside for a while, ducking behind any piece of equipment they could find to give them cover, then Doyle paused. His breathing had been getting worse and Olssen was wondering how much longer he could hold out. However there was no alternative but to keep following this casualty of a civil and awful war. Doyle gave the signal for Olssen to hold back. He carefully laid down his stick and made his way slowly and silently down the steps to the river itself. There was a muffled thud and then a sharp, short whistle. Olssen hoped that was a sign and moved forward. He tentatively got down the stairs and found a body laid on the middle step. He did his best to step over it without falling in the river. He awkwardly got in the rowing boat that clearly had belonged to the dead man.

"Who's the corpse?" Olssen whispered, his curiosity overtaking him.

"Hopefully not dead, but just a bit bruised," Doyle whispered back and took the oars. He filled in more detail with each forward stroke that got him closer to Olssen's face for a fragmented, hushed conversation. "A friend … " outward row; inward row, "He didn't see me…. The less he knows the better … The tide's going out … so he'll be alright as long as … he doesn't move too much and … even if he falls in he … the cold water will wake him."

The oars whispered on the water with each soft, gentle stroke. Doyle was keeping to the side to avoid noise and to stay in the shadows. Olssen knew that even if Doyle were an Olympic rower, he couldn't catch up with the ship now and even if he did, the Flak were still on board and would see them once they hit open water - unless Doyle had a powerboat to hand somewhere. It wasn't so far-fetched given Doyle's resourcefulness. He trusted his mate to the ends of the earth, but even he could hear Doyle's pain on each stroke.

"Let me take over, Ray, you're done for."

"Says who? Nearly there …"

Doyle had renewed his efforts at the oars. Olssen felt that Doyle was trying to prove to him that he could still row despite his injuries - whatever they were exactly. However, a searchlight came into view as they neared the harbour entrance.

"Tell me when we get onto the lights," Doyle whispered.

Olssen watched as the beam swept behind his friend across the river almost to the other bank. It grew larger and more frightening as they approached. Olssen held out until the last moment as Doyle gave the boat his all.

"Now," Olssen mouthed.

Doyle hoisted the oars and leaned forward, flattening himself as much as his injuries would allow. Olssen automatically followed suit, and the boat whispered under its own momentum underneath the searchlights. As soon as they were clear of it, Doyle and his partner unfolded themselves slowly and the rowing resumed. Another five minutes and Doyle stopped again.

"Do you want me …"?

But Doyle shook his head. "Wait," was all he said.

Olssen watched the Scandinavian ship increasing its distance from them. He then heard the sound of a motor launch heading towards the vessel, as Doyle had predicted. There was no way though that they could catch up with the ship once it was free of Flak. He had no choice but await developments as their little craft bobbed in the silent shadows. He felt very exposed. Doyle, though, seemed to know what he was doing. There was a confidence in his battered body.

Five cold, damp minutes later Olssen saw a coal barge drift past them in the dark. He hadn't even heard it. Their little rowing boat was tossed about in its gentle wake.

"Transport," Doyle said, nodding towards the vessel.

Olssen grinned. Doyle had pulled a rabbit out of the fire again. His friend passed over the oars. It seemed that he'd reached his limit. Olssen was more than relieved to take them. He tried to be as quiet as his friend had been at the rowing, but was not as adept. He hadn't rowed since college days. They moored alongside. It seemed that the captain was expecting them and he and some of his crew handed down to them. Olssen grabbed at the nearest hand and was hauled up the side. It seemed wrong - very wrong - to leave Doyle behind. He turned back and wanted to give his own hand, but Doyle was already pulling away. He and the crew watched the little, fragile rowing boat get smaller and smaller as the collier put increasing distance between them. _One day I'll come back for you, Ray_, Olssen thought sadly as he was given a mug of strong tea in the galley. _This war won't last for ever. Just hold on, friend. I'm coming for you._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Doyle rowed back the way he'd come. Despite the cold night, he was bathed in sweat by the time he got back to the starting point. He got out awkwardly, nearly slipping in the water. The body of his friend was no longer there. Fear clutched at him that Jack had fallen in. However, once he'd dragged himself onto the quayside and retrieved his walking stick, he saw Jack in a phone box, probably telling someone about his stolen boat. Doyle knew that the call wouldn't be to the police who were under the yoke of the Flak. He wished that he could tap on Jack's shoulder and tell him all was well, but it was best that Jack remain ignorant of who had borrowed his boat. Doyle also noticed that the Flak's car was no longer there. They'd obviously got what they wanted and had returned back to their lair.

Doyle continued on his slow and painful way back home. His route wasn't as circuitous as before - he was just too exhausted and in too much pain to play games any more. He was getting careless in his weariness. However, he didn't meet anyone along the dark deserted streets. He staggered up the steps to his flat. Home at last. He saw that a note had been stuck in the milk bottle during his absence. He took the bottle in and read the note thoughtfully as he closed the door and put the bolts in place.

_Jack and Jill - noon_

The writing could have been Bodie's, or it could have been forged. Doyle remembered that Terry had been taken and could be telling the Flak all sorts of interesting information - or as much as he knew. Anyone would talk under those conditions. Doyle drifted into his bedroom and sat on the bed reflecting on how much Terry could actually tell them. He knew of Bodie certainly, but did he know all the codes used by some members of the cell to others? Doyle wasn't sure. There was only one way to find out - be there at noon and see what happened.

Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. So went the nursery rhyme. There was a pub at the top of Masons Hill where you could get more than a pail or two of water, or whatever else you fancied. That was where Bodie meant. At 11 o'clock Doyle limped along Byfleet Road. It wasn't the most direct route to the pub but was in the right general direction. He didn't think he was being followed. The lower half of his damaged face was covered in a scarf, for warmth and to detract attention. However, a man with a limp and black eye was an easy target to spot and an even easier body to follow. As Doyle neared the end of the road, ready to turn left, a man approached him from an alleyway.

"You're so predictable, Doyle," Bodie whispered as he continued on his way without missing a step.

Anger fired throughout Doyle's mind and body. He raged at his friend's smugness and raged at his own incompetence. _You bloody try it_! Doyle screamed illogically in his mind. Just to be awkward, Doyle found a busy café and settled himself in there instead of the pub. If Bodie wanted a word, he'd have to work for it. It was nearly 40 minutes before Bodie found him. It had started raining, and Bodie came in looking bedraggled and angry. He ordered teas and settled himself at Doyle's table. The chairs were packed in, making any private conversation impossible.

"Ok, Ray, point taken," Bodie conceded.

"I'm just so bloody tired," Doyle murmured by way of an apology, lowering his scarf and moving his empty cup to make way for the fresh brew.

Bodie looked at him anxiously for a while. Doyle misunderstood the silence.

"Yeah, I know. We're all tired. Sorry,"

"Don't be. Just be careful. Ok?" Bodie tried not to belittle his friend.

"Terry's been taken," Doyle said softly into his tea.

"Yeah, I know."

The conversation couldn't be taken much further with customers jostling their elbows and ears aflap.

"You nearly were too. Look at the state of you. Granny sends her love by the way."

Doyle looked up and smiled tiredly. He interpreted the last sentence as: I wouldn't trust you to help my granny to cross the road! Reading each other's minds, they paid up and left. In the relative privacy of the street, Doyle looked round furtively before telling Bodie that he'd got Olsen home to the 'land of the Vikings'. Bodie didn't ask for details, he just nodded. He knew that since Terry had been taken, Franc would be next on the Flaks' list of 'most wanted'. How Doyle had managed to spirit him away in his state, Bodie could only wonder.

He added his own news to Doyle's saying, "Rumour has it that the Yanks are going to join our gang."

Doyle stopped, looking into his friend's eyes to see if he were serious. Seeing that he was, Doyle's smile melted to a chuckle. He clutched his scarf to his mouth to stifle a guffaw. Bodie never could resist Ray's merriment once he got going. If they weren't careful they'd be giggling like school girls and all the attention that would attract. Doyle pulled himself together with an effort and they continued walking aimlessly.

"Well that's one way to start a Third World War," he said more seriously.

"They'd have to find England on a map first though," Bodie countered.

"Well that should keep them busy for a while, then."

It had been a long time since either man had been in the mood for banter. When was the last time they'd laughed? In the beginning, when it looked like they could win the war against the Flak, when it looked like other countries would never allow fascists on their borders, they were relaxed and confident of victory. They could smell it in the air. Now, two years on, the war had been well and truly lost. The Europeans had decided that any interference in an internal war across the Channel could lead to all kinds of complications. Look what happened when Archduke Franz Ferdinand had been shot in 1914 - a man no-one knew, in a country few had heard of. Then Poland decades later. No, it was better to keep out of other nations' backyards.

So England had been left alone to fight its own war; its friends - or those it thought it had - turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to what was going on. George Cowley organised his operatives as best he could when the writing was unmistakable on the wall, spreading his agents thinly in strategic places; MI5 and other shady organisations doing the same. Then George was gone. Fortunately he had whispered in the ear of his finest before he left to reassure them all that he was well. He'd told Bodie that he was going away for 'a wee while'. With the amount of knowledge Cowley had amassed, and the location of his agents, it was felt that it was far too dangerous for him to remain where he was. Rumour had it among his operatives that he was not too far away. An island, the rumour mill had suggested. That could be anywhere from the Outer Hebrides to the Channel Islands.

"Why UK?" Murphy had mooted during one of their early and rare meetings. As an ex-copper, he had a natural distrust of unfounded rumours. "It could be the Caribbean, or the West Indies."

His audience had laughed at the suggestion that George Cowley would be lazing on a tropical beach somewhere.

"He'll probably still be in his suit and tie," someone suggested, "and the natives trying to find an interpreter!"

"Och, no," McCabe countered, stretching his Edinburgh brogue. "He'd be in a kilt, airing his full regalia!"

The men and women had laughed at the image - how long ago that seemed now - but they often wondered where their leader was as the years dragged on. That he was still pulling strings, and moving operatives like pieces on a chess board, they had no doubt.

The end, when it came, was swift and surgical. The rumours had been half right - not the U.S, but the U.N had come to the rescue - not with a grand 'hurrah' and all guns blazing - but with a battalion of parachutists gently tumbling from a winter sky in the early dawn of an otherwise ordinary grey Monday morning. The pale blue helmets of the United Nations Peace-Keeping Force dangled under white parachutes. They tumbled from a fleet of aircraft as quiet as thistledown. They were backed by a flotilla coming across the Channel from France and Belgium. There had been enough fifth columnists within the Channel Island Government that they quickly overcame the puppet government there as soon as the eagerly awaited code word was received over the radio. Once free of Flak, the islands became another launch pad in the battle for England's soul. The underground agents on the mainland were quickly mobilised, sleepers were awakened, and organisations the general public had never heard of jumped to attention. The emergency services and the armed forces were quick to 'defect' and to take orders directly from the UN. The Flak hadn't seen it coming. Over two years of hell; two years of people quietly disappearing - not just the usual suspects of Jews, gypsies and those with a different skin and a different point of view - but others too whom individual Flak members had a grudge against. It was so easy to take them out. Now the tables had turned, the Flak were on the run and their former citizens were baying for blood and revenge. The UN peace-keepers had their hands full trying to protect the Flak rather than battling against them. Their capitulation had been just as quick and sudden. They knew when they were outnumbered and outgunned.

The 31st of March was a day of celebration. It was declared a National Day, and it was the day George Cowley came home. His agents welcomed him with open arms and riotous celebration. They hadn't realised how much they'd missed him. He would never admit to missing them - but he had; nor would he admit to where he'd been these past years. His agents had managed to pull a few strings themselves and had found a restaurant who could cater for them all. And a few agents were sat close enough, that first evening, to secretly inspect George Cowley for any signs of sunburn!


End file.
